Stakeout
by Orangeblossom
Summary: On a stakeout, Hannibal goes to the rescue of a dog in distress, with surprising results.


Stakeout

Hannibal Smith, his car hidden in the trees across the road from Harrison Edwards' residence in the middle of the woods, was set up for evening surveillance. His part of this mission was to make sure Harrison didn't leave his house that night, and although that seemed straightforward enough for even Murdoch to handle, they'd only discovered at the eleventh hour that Harrison might interfere with their plans and the information they'd been able to obtain was so minimal — no blueprints of the house, no topographical maps of the area, not even any photographs — they needed Hannibal, the man best at improvising on the ground, to do the surveillance.

According to what little information Face had been able to find, Harrison was tall and slightly built, in his late forties or early fifties, had black hair and hazel eyes, taught science and coached basketball at the local middle school, and lived alone except for a mixed-breed bitch named Buster.

Just before Hannibal put the night-vision scope to his eye, he saw a flash of gold fur between the trees across the road. _And there goes Buster_. Through the scope he saw that the dog was intently regarding a squirrel perched on a tree, her tail waving in the friendliest of manners.

He examined the house, where the glow of a fireplace through a front window obscured his view through the scope, but at least the fact of the fire, which the dog certainly couldn't have lit, meant Harrison was at home. He scanned the surrounding area carefully, noting the pickup truck in the driveway, and tried not to be too diverted by Buster, who trotted amiably after every bird and rabbit that caught her eye — he didn't doubt that if a moose chose to wander over, she would happily be its welcoming committee as well. He checked over the house again and was in time to catch a glimpse of someone go down what looked like a hallway and into another room.

And then as Hannibal switched his focus back to the woods, he saw the porcupine. _Oh, no_. He silently willed the dog not to notice the slow-moving animal, and was heartened when Buster busied herself sniffing around the roots of a tree. But then she looked up, her tail wagging eagerly as she scented a new friend. _No no no no no — _

As if he could avert disaster he hurried across the road, but he was only in time to look into Buster's uncomprehending eyes as she lifted her head and showed him a nose covered in quills.

He put out his hand to the dog (whose varied ancestry showed in her collie muzzle, chow body, and retriever's tail) and approached slowly as pain finally registered and she whined high in her throat. She tried to bat at the quills with her paw and Hannibal bent down, catching her in his arms. "Easy, mama, that'll only make it worse," he told her, lifting her up and carrying her towards Harrison's house.

A cover story was easy enough, but he hoped he didn't have to prove to Harrison that his car had died — not only hadn't he taken the time to disable it, he hadn't even moved it out of the trees and to the side of the road. All because of the dog shivering with pain in his arms. It wasn't like him not to take care of the details, but was he supposed to let her suffer? He brushed his cheek against the bright fur on top of Buster's head, not blaming her.

As the door opened he put on his best "you can trust me" expression and asked with just the right amount of concern, "Is this your dog?"

But it wasn't Harrison in the doorway, it was his girlfriend, a tall, slender woman dressed for a night in in loose-fitting jeans, a faded sweatshirt from the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and a pair of fuzzy slippers. She barely met Hannibal's gaze before she got an eyeful of Buster.

"Merciful goodness!" She shooed Hannibal inside and indicated the living room to the right. "Hold her a little longer, would you? Keep her calm?" she asked, hurrying down the hall to the left.

"Right." He set Buster down on the rug in front of the fireplace but kept firm hold of her legs so she couldn't worry at the quills.

Out of long habit he assessed the room for quick exits (the front door closed but not locked; the two narrow casement windows too small for him, but the larger window between them just might do) and possible weapons (lengths of firewood were good; wrought iron fireplace tools even better), and also noted the positive signs of a basketball coach (several basketballs in a mesh bag right by the front door) and science teacher (a goldfish tank against a wall, plant cuttings taking root on the window seat, the built-in bookcases on either side of the fireplace filled half with books, half with artifacts like bird feathers, geodes, snakeskins, and tree bark). The dining room was behind the living room and he presumed the kitchen was through the doorway next to the dining room, but he couldn't see or hear Harrison in either room.

When the woman came back with a pair of needle-nose pliers, Hannibal realized just how far off his game Buster had thrown him. Somehow he'd assumed the only course of action was to take the dog to the emergency vet. But not only was this woman apparently a firm believer in DIY, but either Harrison wasn't to be disturbed even when his dog had been attacked by a porcupine — or he wasn't anywhere in the house.

"Poor baby," the woman crooned. Kicking off her fuzzy slippers, she sat on the rug and planted her bare feet on either side of Buster's front paws, setting herself. Hannibal, figuring he was committed since he was the one who'd brought Buster home, held the dog's wriggling body between his knees and used both hands to hold her head still. "That's a good girl," the woman encouraged, "it's okay…"

As Hannibal's mind raced with contingency plans, another part of his brain couldn't help noting how unfazed this woman was when he had only the vaguest notion of what to do for the dog. The woman worked efficiently but as gently as she could, concentrating on extracting the cruelly barbed quills and keeping up a steady stream of encouragement for Buster.

He found he couldn't keep thinking of her as just "the woman," not when they were practically nose-to-nose (with a struggling dog between them), and made his way quickly from "Harrison's girl" to "Harrison" to "Rissa."

Free to stare at Rissa while she focused entirely on Buster, Hannibal saw that she was more plain than pretty, her dark hair with a few strands of gray threatening to escape from a short ponytail, her cheeks and nose sunburned, no makeup hiding the lines around her mouth and eyes.

Rissa rocked backwards from the momentum of a particularly stubborn quill, overcompensated when she leaned forward again and bumped heads with Hannibal before he could move out of the way.

She looked at him, startled, as if she'd forgotten he was there, and then frankly stared at him. And he found himself equally transfixed by the humorous look in her hazel eyes.

Hazel eyes.

And Rissa was tall, slightly built, had dark —_black_ hair … Hannibal made a mental note to let Face have it the next time he saw him.

"Want to switch?" he managed to offer.

"That's okay. Almost done." She couldn't seem to look away from him, though, and Hannibal found that the feeling was mutual. Had he thought her plain? She was blushing, and she was adorable.

Buster whimpered, breaking the spell. Rissa stroked her soothingly, then ducked her head and went back to work. "You're being so good! Yes, you are!" she told the dog. After a moment she said to Hannibal, "By the way, I'm Harrison Edwards, and this is Buster."

He had to ask. "Okay, I get the name 'Buster.' But why 'Harrison'?"

"My parents were huge fans of 'A Hard Day's Night.' It was either 'Harrison' or 'George.'"

He couldn't help a chuckle. "I guess it could have been worse — they could have admired Ringo."

"See? You have to count your blessings."

On an impulse, he decided not to give her an alias. "I'm Hannibal Smith."

"As in the military commander?"

"As in Missouri." Rissa raised her eyebrows and smiled; he knew what it was like to have an unusual name, too. He continued, "My car died down the road and I couldn't get a signal on my phone. I saw your house, and then I saw that Buster had tried to go a few rounds with a porcupine and lost."

"She did, didn't she, poor baby." Finished, she put down the pliers and surveyed her handiwork, and Hannibal released Buster and sat back as well. Buster hung her head as if she wasn't sure whether she wanted comfort or to hide for the rest of the evening.

"Tomorrow you'll feel worlds better, sweet girl," Rissa promised, briskly rubbing the dog's fur. "So, Hannibal. Do you always go through the woods rescuing beautiful blondes?"

"Blondes, brunettes, brindled, spotted — " She gave a snort of laughter. " — I'm an equal opportunity rescuer of dogs in distress."

"Well, I'm very grateful you came to Buster's rescue. The phone's over — "

A flash of lightning lit the living room like a sudden firefight. Hannibal counted off the seconds and barely got to two before he not only heard, but felt a sharp crack of thunder reverberate in his chest that caused Buster to back up into him, cowering.

A storm definitely hadn't been part of the plan and Hannibal hoped it wouldn't wreak havoc on his men and their mission. It had seemed like a logical extension that Murdoch would be able to read meteorological signs if he was a certified genius with anything that flew, but nothing in Murdoch's briefing had pointed to a storm that night. Hannibal made a mental note to have a few words with Murdoch when he was through with Face.

Lightning flared and thunder crashed, this time almost simultaneously, the wind picked up, and rain started pelting against the windows.

"You're okay, mama, you're safe," he assured the panicky dog, smoothing her fur with long strokes to calm her while regarding Rissa. "The phone?" he asked. With the rain coming down this hard it was unlikely either Rissa or Buster would go outside for the rest of the night, and if BA was standing by to intercept his call he could slip out easily enough and —

She shook her head. "You shouldn't handle a phone until at least thirty minutes after a lightning strike. Telephone cables contain copper, and electrical surges from lightning can — "

"What are you, a science teacher?" he deadpanned.

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Not a veterinarian?"

"No," she said slowly, thinking about what she'd just done. "I just — do what's necessary. I mean, if a fight starts, you break it up, right? If someone tries to swallow a frog, you make them spit it out. If your dog sticks her nose on a porcupine — "

"I'd take her to the vet," Hannibal said. "I'm not sure I would have known to do what you did."

"Of course you would have!"

"After some trial and error, maybe. Not the way you did, with no hesitation, no flinching, no panic. And at the same time you were as gentle as you could be with Buster. I rather admired that, Rissa."

She blushed at his praise and asked distractedly, picking up the pliers and the quills, "'Rissa'?"

"It's short for 'Harrison' — do you mind?"

She gave him a small smile. "No. I kind of like it."

"Well, Rissa, I guess I have a half hour to kill," he ventured, right before a third burst of lightning and, several seconds later, a rumble of thunder.

"Starting now."

Buster, clearly deciding the evening had been more than she'd bargained for, stalked to her bed next to the fireplace and burrowed underneath the blanket. Rissa sighed, moving to put the quills and pliers on the coffee table. "Hannibal, would you mind getting a few biscuits for Buster? There's a jar in the kitchen, on the counter near the sink."

He glanced briefly down the hall on his way to the kitchen, taking note of several doorways that he presumed led to bedrooms, the bathroom, and possibly a hall closet. It looked like the piles of paper on the dining room table included a stack of graded quizzes, research reports written on binder paper, and basketball plays. The back door was in the kitchen (locked, with a screen door), as was a casement window above the sink and a skylight in the ceiling (he might be able to fit through the skylight in a pinch; he definitely couldn't squeeze through the window). Her knives were attached to a magnetic strip on the wall (easy access) and on the counter, behind two half-unpacked bags of groceries, was the jar with doggie biscuits.

Hannibal grabbed a handful and returned to the living room where Rissa, who had collected a few of Buster's toys, had just lifted her blanket and was asking, "Do you want Hedgy to keep you company?" as she held out a stuffed hedgehog. The dog's golden muzzle emerged and she claimed the hedgehog with her teeth, then retreated again. "How about Porky?" Buster ignored the squeaky pork chop and the other proffered toys. Rissa moved aside and Hannibal crouched down.

"How about a biscuit or two, mama?" She carefully claimed them from his hand one by one, and then pulled her head back underneath the blanket and steadfastly refused to come out again.

"She'll be fine," Rissa assured him. Then as if remembering her manners, she said, "Would you like — ?"

"No biscuits for me, thanks," he demurred.

"No, I meant — "

"I'm good on chew toys, too."

She snorted. "I'm trying to ask if you've had dinner, if you'd like something to eat."

"Oh! Well, I've already eaten, but I think I saw some chocolate in one of your grocery bags…"

She nodded as she got to her feet. "I was going to save it for a special occasion — "

He managed to look hurt as he got up also. "And this isn't?"

"Well, if your expectations aren't too high, sure, I guess it could be considered special."

"I thank you," he said with exaggerated courtesy and a slight bow. As he straightened he discovered she was tall enough to be almost eye-level with him and he easily caught her amused gaze. And he found himself staring at her again — there was something about Rissa's warm hazel eyes…

After a long moment, during which she returned his stare rather helplessly and all banter came to an abrupt halt, a gust of wind drove the rain even harder against the windows and brought them back to themselves. Rissa shook her head slightly, gave him a wry smile, and suddenly blurted, "I am having a really hard time looking at you and holding a conversation at the same time."

The lights flickered, dimmed, came back — and then the power went out. "Well, that should take care of it," he said dryly, the wavering light from the fireplace casting their faces in unsteady shadow. "I apologize for being so astoundingly ugly you can't stand to look at me."

"That's not what I meant! There's just … something about you. When I look at you I feel — lost, my mind goes totally blank. And that doesn't happen to me, ever."

"So the woman who can break up fights and deal with a porcupine attack can't summon a coherent thought just because a strange man shows up at her front door — "

"With the most incredible blue eyes and a dog in his arms? Yes, it's true."

He grinned, musing briefly how that would play out as a pick-up line of sorts in a bar. "Now that you can't see me, is there anything you wanted to tell me?"

She considered. "There _is_ one thing." He raised an eyebrow in question. She stepped closer and lightly brushed his silver hair back from his forehead, and sudden heat coursed all through him at her touch. "Ever since I hit you in the head, I've been dying to kiss you, Hannibal."

"That's odd," he said, realizing it was the truth even as he said it, "ever since you hit me in the head, I've been dying for you to kiss me, Rissa." He touched her face, his thumb caressing her sunburned cheek.

"Funny how that happens." She slipped a hand inside the open collar of his shirt and caressed the back of his neck. "Or is it? Things happen for a reason, don't you think? Even if something seems random — "

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to hear that was her personal philosophy. "— it turns out, there's a plan," he finished for her, easing her ponytail holder off and running his fingers through her hair.

"Exactly."

He pulled her into his arms and she pressed against him soft and warm and she felt so good, like she belonged there and nowhere else. "Let me tell you about a plan, then." She looked at him, her expression open. "I was a colonel in the Army…"

He proceeded to tell her everything — about the A-Team, the murder they didn't commit, how they were all on the run now, his part in that night's mission. He spoke briefly but seriously, not wanting there to be any secrets between them, and she listened to him with equal seriousness.

When he finished, she kissed him, lightly at first, and then when he leaned into the kiss her lips parted at the pressure of his. When they came up for air she noted, "First time I've ever kissed a federal fugitive."

"And?"

Her arms slid around his shoulders, holding tight. "I want to do it again." After another long kiss she asked, "How long are you supposed to keep me here?"

"All night."

She grinned at him. "Shouldn't be a problem."

FIN


End file.
